


In Light of Abnormality

by Illulysto



Series: Is Everybody In? [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dave has PTSD, F/F, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Monster Mystery, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Siblings Messing Around, Time Skips, Trans Dirk Strider, Trans Male Character, Unconventional Families, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10466628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illulysto/pseuds/Illulysto
Summary: It's not every day your mother reveals that you have two new brothers that you never knew about coming to take permanent residence with you, with little to no pre-warning, might you add; not every day that they turn out to be the most complexly-wired beings this side of a molecular knot and not every day that the four of you find traces of an inky beast lurking around the surrounding woods of your home. To top it all off, knowing your mother, she won't, in the simplest of terms, do jack shit to solve any of these problems.You four have your work cut out for you.A story about familial bonds and how they're put to the test over the course of three or so years (featuring a monster mystery to keep things interesting).





	1. Unknowing

René Lalonde's fingers are restless– fiddling with cutlery and prodding at the half-burnt salmon floating in her froth. This is a abnormal situation for both you and Roxy; staring in bewilderment at your mother's sobriety and ability to conjure a somewhat edible meal and yet not take a bite of it. From past experience concluded from the rare times she is sober, her appetite is downright ravenous, which you believe disconnected the registry of her tastebuds since most meals cooked are either burnt, tasteless, disgusting or all three. 

The table is silent apart from the cautious clinks of forks and spoons to dishes. Usually, Roxy and your mother are conversing through the haze of alcohol and coldness. You prefer not to talk, as dabbling in matters like the tenseness between your family would only cause more rifts. Not Roxy though. She's determined to pull your mom out of the gutter and rip the curtain of the apathetic, drunk exterior from the railings forever.

That's a good one. You should write that down.

You can't eat much. You're too mentally consumed with Dave right now to think about nourishing your body. He hasn't replied to your messages in about a week, which isn't too unnatural when looking back on past inactivity lasting upwards of a month. But there's been nothing. One minute you were talking about the absurdity of reading The Fault in Our Stars as an educational set work by his school and the next he was gone mid-sentence. Things like this happened relatively often but he strives to warn you when he won't be available. At least Roxy talks to his older brother, Dirk, and gives you updates on your ironic companion. However, even he has been absent from Pesterchum and none of your friends seem to know where either Strider is.

You finish most of the salmon soup and Roxy eats all of it, you don't know how. Before the both of you leave, the sound of your mother tapping her glass of– oddly enough– water with her teaspoon echoes throughout the room and stills your footsteps. You turn around to see her eyes round and anxious, rippling maroon puddle at the mercy of the wind.

She takes in a breath, "Girls... I... Well..." she hesitates, the tip of her fork might as well be bending with the pressure being applied by her thumb.

"What's up, Mom?" asks Roxy, fully facing your mother with full attention.

Upon collecting some confidence, the woman sighs, "You're getting two new brothers."

Silence hangs in the air like knives, and it takes a few seconds for you to compile a reaction. Roxy's response forms in slow motion, expressions morphing from excitement, happiness, outrage and confusion. You settle for a logical approach and tame the anger brewing in your stomach like a storm cloud, not just from the salmon.

"Wh... Mom are you pregnant?"

"No I'm not-"

"Then are you adopting? What are their names and ages and junk? Why are they coming to us? What happened to them?"

Your mother calmly evades the barrage of your older sister's questions, "Well, they're coming in tomorrow. The younger one is badly injured so-"

"Injured?" you perk up, "What do you mean injured?"

"What are their names, Mom? I wanna know."

"Okay, one question at a time, please," there's a pause, table cloth gripped in her hands, "Their names are David and Da– uhm... Dirk Strider. They're moving from Texas to Rainbow Falls tonight, and I've already prepared rooms for them. I'm picking them up in the morning. Be nice to them when they come, especially Dave."

Your mother abruptly leaves the table and disappears upstairs, the clicks of her heels on the marble floor reverberating until her door slams shut. Only then does your mind catch up to the present, body performing a controlled earthquake in response. Roxy's breath is sharp and uneven by your side, and the beginnings of sobs rake her back. You can't believe this. Dave never told you he lived in a troubled environment. Your mother never told you that she had two other children living in fucking Texas. Nobody told you any of this.

What else don't you know about your family?

~*~

They're an hour late.

You are aware that living on a waterfall in the middle of Keene, New York is not the most convenient place to call home, but you expect your mother to be more punctual for the first impression of her two newest sons. You're antsy, and so is Roxy– sitting on the uncomfortable leather couch that squeaks at the slightest movement. Although Frigglish and Mutie rolling along the cushions are providing some comfort for your sister, it is only slight.

Roxy's leg bounces up and down with no control, the soles of her converse tapping and echoing through the hall. Her fingers wriggle like worms, intertwining with each other and fiddling with her black skater skirt, the curls of her hair and pink socks. She picked this habit up at age nine when she used to do contemporary dancing. The dancing itself was fun, but the teacher terrified her. Even your seven year old mind could register the signs of dictatorship and unattainable standard enforced by Ms. Snowman. You prefer ballet, anyway.

You don't know wether to feel excited or afraid, so you settle for tense instead. Seeing Dave through your own eyes and not through a screen will be jarring, but meeting him again as your brother and not a friend will be even more disorienting. It means an expectance of secrecy, proximity and tolerance– something Dave might not be the most comfortable with. Dirk is a whole other story. You know virtually nothing about him, and Roxy always keeps her lips sealed on his state of mind, much to your annoyance.

To the common person in this situation, the moral thing to do would be to indulge in providing comfort to your distressed sister, so you do just that after thinking about a proper extension of kindness for two minutes, "Roxy, how're you feeling?"

She sighs, "I dunno, Rose... I'm hecks of nervous right now."

"So I've noticed. How many hecks are you referring to?"

"Like... a field of burning hecks. Fuckin' ablaze."

"Oh dear..."

Roxy clicks her tongue anxiously, "Yup. Major heckage a' nerves. Sucks." She shimmies across the couch beside you despite how uncomfortable the leather chafes against her legs. She winces. A stare of over-contemplation and guilt is resumed, directed at the corner of the ornate coffee table with a marble wand replica positioned in the middle. She sighs, "I could do with a few sips. Just to loosen up, you know?"

"Roxy, no."

"Okay, okay. No spirits for me. Dirk'll get mad if I greet him like that, anyways."

"That's good. It definitely would not be the best impression."

"Yup." Squeaks on the polished floor slowing, Roxy turns to you with her hand cupping her cheek, "How're ya doin'?"

"I feel what is considered satisfyingly indifferent, I suppose."

A sympathetic glance, "Rosie, you don't have to pretend you ain't full of nerves too."

"I'm not nervous." A lie. You will yourself to be as vacant as physically possible. Ultimately, it does nothing to change the knowing look of empathetic conciliation adorning Roxy's features.

"Nah, lil sister. You're super nervous right now."

You blush, "Is it that obvious?"

Raising her arms to touch her temples, as if she were a mythological, all-knowing figure, Roxy proclaims in an exaggerated voice: "My psychic twin powers have deducted that you, my dearest siblerino, are def stressed. This calls for an immediate dosage of sisterly love, A-S-A-fucking-P. " There's a pause, indicative when she opens her eyes to wink, or wonk, mischievously at you and you respond with an eyebrow raise.

"My dear sister, I can reluctantly admit to a fraction of your prediction, but I must remind you that while we may be born on the same day of the year, we are still two years apart and through deduction, are not twins."

"Specifics, shmefifics, Rosie. I'm still right~" Roxy shuffles over to wrap her arms around you and you initially flinch, "Come child, let me hug you." Reluctantly indulging in the comfort, you sink into the embrace and feel your cheeks light up. Roxy snickers for the first time since yesterday, "There ya go~ Hugs fix everythin'."

That seems true; the warm, familiar embrace of your sister lifting your lead-laden anxieties for a brief moment, "Thanks, Roxy."

She beams when she pulls away, a genuine grin stretching to the fading pink curls lapping at her cheeks. The cats recognise her mood and roll on their backs, across your sister's lap, purring and mewing contently. It softens the atmosphere in a way that makes you exhale the breath you weren't aware of holding in brief tranquility. However, the oaken grandfather chimes three 'o clock and your discomfiture returns to haunt your nerves just as swiftly.

"We should concoct a plan for foreseeable interactions," you say, right when the silence becomes too much.

"Ohh sounds devious. Whatcha got in mind?"

"Hmm..." You tap your finger on your chin, gears interlocking and jamming in your brain. It may be difficult to formulate, but it does seem necessary for the psychological landmine that are the Striders. You click your tongue when an idea finally accumulates, "I propose we give them space at first. An estimated two to three days. This may differ if one of them initiate contact with either of this, however-"

"Geez, you're talkin' about 'em like they're test subjects or aliens or somethin'. Lighten up, sis," interrupts Roxy.

"Um... right. I apologise for my figurative implication to our newfound brothers being extraterrestrial beings. If I must continue, I do believe that if they are to initiate conta- I mean, talk with us first, regardless of prior trauma, we should be  as inoffensive and gentle as possible, since mother refuses to disclose the events leading to them moving in with us."

The teenager nods thoroughly, displaying commitment, "Mmhm. Just be nice and help 'em around when they get here. Sounds like a plan, Stan."

"Well, assuming that they do arrive..."

"I'm sure they're fine, Rose. Mom didn't have anything this morning."

Well at least that concern has been invalidated, "Thank god..."

"We live on a waterfall. I don't think it's easy to pick two dudes up from the airport, drive through town, up a windy forest path that hasn't been cleared up for at least twenty years and _then_ , then past a raging river of death and rainbows to finally reach the doorstep of our not-so-humble abode."

You sigh in agreement, "You're right. There are many reasonable explanations as to why they may be late. It's just... It's important. So acutely important."

"I know, and I get it. There ain't shit we can do about it except maybe call Mom and see if she picks up," says your sister with optimism.

You have to crush it with your negative assumption, though, "She never has her cellphone with her. It's always tucked in one of her lab coats that she never wears anymore."

"Mm... I guess you're right..." Inherent disappointment fills the air after that. The beat of a bouncing shoe and ticking clockwork fill silence, along with your own guilt of submerging Roxy's hope in worry once more.

That's why the sound of keys jiggling in the lock shocks you in fright before being drenched in dizzying discomfort. Roxy leaps from the couch and stands impatiently at the door, fingers peeling away old nail polish in a feeble attempt to calm down. You join her just when your mother opens the door.

The boy who you're assuming is Dave is about half a head taller than you. Windswept hair a light blond, bordering on fluorescent in shade, fairly standard and short. He has light, olive skin littered in freckles across his cheeks and hands like a sea of spots, and a plethora of raised skin and scars you manage to catch under his hoodie sleeves. Along with his bright, red hoodie, he wears black jeans and traditionally standard aviators that you swear you can see stars glinting when the midday autumn sun hits. Those must be the gift from John he raved about last year on his birthday. Endearing that he still wears them. His eyes remain hidden from yours, showcasing his seemingly robotic disposition to his current whereabouts.

Dirk is slightly taller than Dave, by a small margin. His hair is darker– a warm blond, more styled and spikier. It's messily cut, too, but considering how little belongings they've brought with them, you can safely say that they didn't have the opportunity to have a professional cut. His skin's paler than Dave's with less freckles overall, but the scar running around his neck makes you double take to see if it's real. He's wearing a black t-shirt, a brown jacket with cotton trimming in the collar and blue jeans, complete with irregularly triangular shades that cover his emotional state, but not as bad as his younger counterpart's.

It annoys you that you can't see what they're feeling. Dave appears to be just as emotionally vague as he was through Pesterchum, while Dirk seems to show some expression through his hunched shoulders and meek movements. Through him, you assume that they're both tired from the long trip.

Your mother manoeuvres between you, Roxy and the Striders, and hastily introduces all of you, "Rose, Roxy, here's Dave and Dirk: your new brothers. I hope you get along well in the coming years."

The brothers seem to recognise the fact that you both are the same people they regularly talked to online, and sheepishly try to greet you.

"Yo," says Dave.

"Hi," says Dirk.

Glancing at Roxy, you can see her trying her damnedest to restrain herself from hugging them so tight that they might die from affectionate asphyxiation– clenching her fists and biting her lip. You're absentmindedly playing with the skirt of your violet dress, black cardigan suddenly feeling a little warm on you.

Swallowing any uncomfortable feelings, you offer a weak smile and say, "Hello. A pleasure to meet you both in person."

"Hey guys," greets Roxy as formally as possible. God, she's bursting at the seams with the need for platonic close-contact  that she's almost shaking.

Your mother claps her hands in an authoritative fashion, "Right. You must be tired. Follow me to your rooms and get some rest. I'll bring dinner up for you. Let me carry these for you." And with that, the elusive woman plucks their bags from their hands and briskly walks upstairs, stopping at the top of the stairs to donate a smile that you know is forced. The brothers follow close behind without uttering another word before all three vanish.

You and Roxy exchange glances, an equal mixture of confusion and morbid curiosity. There'll be more to investigate once they get fully settled.

Oh, the mayhem you'll wring.


	2. Outset of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rocky start with your no-longer-long-distance friend and brother, you spend the morning doing nothing but sit in deep contemplation (and try to knit). The previously mentioned brother stops by and you talk. You think it goes well.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT] at 23:59 

TG: yo   
TG: you up   
TT: I very much am now.   
TT: It's nice to see you showcasing your apt communication skills near the stroke of midnight, Dave. Have you forgotten that we now live in the same vicinity? This technological barrier is no longer a significant issue, so what's the problem?   
TG: sorry   
TG: just   
TG: its weird   
TT: I would assume so.   
TT: Relocating after spending thirteen years of sentience in a single environment is considerably jarring. As such, those who have moved are prone to experiencing homesickness and other disorienting mental affects.   
TG: god fuckin stop that   
TG: i didnt come for you to patronise me alright   
TT: I apologise. That was uncalled for.   
TT: This is also new for me.   
TT: Roxy and I were only told of your arrival yesterday.   
TG: thats   
TG: that sucks ass sorry about that and all   
TT: It's not your fault. My mother, and by further extension, your mother, refused to inform me of any reason why you would be spontaneously moving in with us.   
TG: uh   
TT: Am I allowed to ask for an explanation? Or is that too overwhelming right now?   
TG: no no its fine   
TG: well we moved because of shit happening with bro   
TG: from what i heard he hella miscalculated budgets and shit and couldnt afford to keep the raw coolness of the strider duo in that damn apartment   
TG: bricks and plaster got nothin on containing this raw disease of sick   
TT: I see.   
TG: yeah   
TG: it was weird when he told us that wed be living with you guys   
TG: struck speechless   
TG: but not too speechless   
TG: it lasted for 0.2 secs and then we dealt with it like the dudes we are   
TG: it was like   
TG: lalonde   
TG: like our friends that weve known since our pudgy-ass fingers of awesome could boop a keyboard lalonde   
TG: he was like yeah   
TG: it was wild   
TT: Certainly sounds like it.   
TT: That may also be the only time I've heard you recount a time that Bro has spoken to you. As in, verbally.   
TG: i mean   
TG: he kinda did   
TT: How so?   
TG: he left a note on the fridge   
TT: Oh.   
TG: yeah   
TT: I didn't know that Dirk lived with you. When did this change occur?   
TG: jesus is this a lightning round   
TG: how many questions are you gonna fuckin ask   
TT: I'm an inquisitive personality. I thought you were aware of this.   
TG: i am but   
TG: fuck   
TG: okay dirk moved in with us three years ago when i was nine   
TG: bro never talked about him for the most part and for a while i didnt even know he EXISTED   
TG: but his ass showed up one day and the hot shit o meter fuckin tripled since   
TG: hes a lot like bro but he talks more and isnt that much of a jackass   
TT: You're saying that your Bro was a, quote unquote, jackass?   
TG: ...   
TT: Dave did something happen?   
TG: i dont want to talk about it right now   
TT: I heard you were in the hospital. Was there an accident?   
TG: rose kindly fuck off i just said i dont wanna talk anymore   
TT: Dave please. 

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT] at 00:19 

turntechGodhead [TG] blocked  tentacleTherapist [TT] at 00:20

~*~

Well, that plan swerved off quicker than an oiled tire. Quite the spectacular failure, you begrudgingly admit. So exceptionally, poorly executed that you could physically picture the fly-like exchange dropping as its feeble lifespan collapsed into a slowly dying chitin shell. When recalling to your earlier thought process before the Striders' arrival, you realise you broke your first rule: to be as inoffensively hospitable and, more importantly, non-confrontational as possible.

Well, fuck.

You switch your laptop off and plug it in to charge, watching it slide off your knees and entangling itself with your blankets. You sigh in frustration and lie back on the sea of unmade cotton that is your bed, white lapping at your skin in the pale light. Of course, you didn't intend for the intent of the conversation to be so combative. It felt natural to ask questions. It seems as if Dave has left you out of the loop for more than originally anticipated. But you were still forward. Far too forward.

Okay, you were being a shithead to him. You still feel like one as, deep within your conscious dictates, you should be. He may forget about this in the morning, however. Dave has the tendency to do that. Phone, pencils, school books, his said tendency to forget things. He's quite absent-minded when we he wants to be. Anyway, you hope he can forgive you after recuperating. A secondary first impression will be in order in case that prediction falls through. Perhaps he should get used to his new environment before disclosing further details of his past. You're greedy for information about him, not just out of psychoanalytical practice, but out of worry for his own being.

Wow, it sounds really selfish to be putting the prospect of psychological data above your friend's– now your brother's– mental health. You also feel even more like an egotistical fuck. Again, well done, conscious.

You need to talk to Roxy about Dirk, as well. Upon first inspection, you have gleamed nothing identifiable about his psyche or personality. Dave may have given a little hint about him just now, but without the context of his previous home life, the vague information is pretty much useless. Until you devise a strategy, your oldest brother will remain the equivalent of a tall and mysterious stranger from a mystery novel; originally lead to be the perpetrator, but is then revealed to have been falsely accused and assists in the final chapters to find the true culprit, reaping brief justice upon the morally grey world.

...A little dramatic but it's an apt description. John's cousin, Jane, would enjoy something like that.

Dave and Dirk can wait until tomorrow. For now, you can plan for the next few hours and the estimable colloquium that shall come with them. For now, everything is the same as the nights before this one, and changes aren't as prominent and unavoidable to think about.

You fall asleep before you can even muster another thought.

~*~

You feel like absolute horseshit when you wake up.

The sun's just peaking through the yellowing trees; traces of mist are illuminated by the warm rays, wrapping around swollen tree trunks. The river rapids rumble through the walls in an ever-present hum that's become white noise to you. It's chilly, the breeze from your open window raising goosebumps on your uncovered skin. You're cold because your blankets are wrapped around your feet instead of the rest of your body. This always seems to happen.

Sitting up and stretching, you reach for your laptop to check the time. Sunday, 06:56. You groan, sucking in a breath of cool air and wrap the rest of your sheets around your shoulders like a cocoon. Curling your toes into the mattress, you rub your eyes and catch the platinum nest of hair in the mirror next to your violin. Your warm, coppery complexion is fittingly complimented with the shadows adorning your eyelids. It's nice to see that not only do you feel like shit, but you look like it as well.

There isn't any use going back to sleep, so you gather the strength to stand atop your fluffy carpet and prepare for the trek downstairs. Carrying blankets around is fairly cumbersome, so you walk to your closet and slip on one of your purple woollen sweaters that you made last month for winter, dropping your sheets back on your bed in an unceremonious clump. The supple wool tickles your thighs, stopping just above your black shorts and the sleeves just enclosing on your knuckles. You almost step on your knitting needles and stab the soles of your feet. Maybe you should knit today?

You hope no one's awake downstairs. Dealing with any devision of family right now would be a devastating blow to the dawn of your day. Picking up your knitting needles along with your bag of lavender wool, you tip-toe out of your room. The hallway is a dimly lit orange from the incoming sunlight, echoes of raging river water vibrating through your bones. Snores resonate from the kitchen, and your stomach twists when you guess who may be down there. Perhaps you shouldn't go down so early.

A confounding predicament indeed. Sacrifice your hunger for mental and physical fortitude from your passive-aggressive mother or risk it all and stay under the watchful protection of Zazzerpan the Learned to satiate your stomach.

Your appetence for breakfast ultimately triumphs, and with reluctance, you slink downstairs. Your feet freeze as they touch the tiled marble floor, the rumbling waters beneath you more ferocious than ever. Dozens of stone and granite eyes lock on you as your foot leaves the final step, and Frigglish and Mutie bound towards you with blissfully happy faces. No one else seems to be awake, including the snoring figure behind you.

Your hunch is correct, for sitting slumped over the kitchen bar is Roxy, a spilled martini dripping onto the floor like silver sourness. Two bottles surround her, both vodka and empty, ominously glinting in the rising sun. Soft snores escape your sister, drool mixing with the remaining alcohol pooling around her mouth and signature martini glass.

Another morning like this, you think to yourself. You thought that she'd at least have the restraint for one day, which is apparently not the case. Sighing, you dispose of the bottles and soak up the spilled vodka, wincing at the scent of alcohol. Even as you lift her wet cheek to clean the spot underneath, Roxy remains as dead to the world as a fallen forest in the midst of night– so unconscious that she almost falls off the bar stool at the slightest imbalance. You catch her before she does, luckily. You're not strong enough to carry an intoxicated and benumbed teenager up a flight of stares, however, so you settle with just leaving her here. Might as well leave a glass of water for when she wakes up. She'll need it.

One bowl of cereal and a cup of mint tea later, you settle as comfortably as the leather couch allows you to with the white, porcelain semi-sphere on your lap. The crashing swells of the waterfall lull you into a rhythm as you eat, your arm working as an automatic machine as your breakfast is slowly ingested. The warm, brown liquid of the tea gradually empties as well and it leaves a sweet, refreshing taste in your mouth. Once you finish, you take your crockery and cutlery to the sink, a watchful eye trained on the teenager behind in you in case she stirs.

She doesn't.

Now that your appetite has been quelled, you head back to the couch, sitting perpendicular to the Eldritch Princess doll and take out your needles. Frigglish stretches, digging his claws into the dusty wool of the doll, further cementing your attitude towards it. Another symbol of your mother's passive aggressive nature towards your ideals and an unofficial scratching post for your feline companions.

Your needles are poised, lavender string tied neatly around the tips, ready for coarse creation. You ultimately commit to a pair of socks, which are your least favourite to make. You need a challenge after that striped scarf you finished last week, so why not a pair of adaptable socks? They're an important part of everyday wardrobe, so practice is vital for the objective of style. You aim to complete them by the end of next week so they can match your black cat slippers. The first ones you made are uneven and unravelling, and you oh so long to dispose of them.

You eventually stop listing the benefits of socks and actually start knitting the damn things. Each stitch is made with utmost precision, the clink of needles slowly drowning out Roxy's snoring and the sounds of the river. You fall into a new pattern with every row, a light buzz in your brain placating you until you realise your hands are stilling and your eyes begin to close. You don't bother fighting the flood of tiredness this time.

~*~

Upon realising you've fallen asleep in a particularly vulnerable position, you spring to your feet the moment your memory catches up to you, needles positioned for combat. Eyes shifting around the noticeably warmer and brighter living room, you fail to detect any signs of René Lalonde and by extension, any symbols of ironic affection that she seems to harbour for you. You do realise that Roxy's no longer situated at the bar and neither is her glass of water. She must've woken up and gone upstairs to rest.

Sighing, you lower your needles and sit back down in relief. The pillows are still warm and if you so desire, you could curl up and drift out of consciousness. But you decide that you've slept enough for today, and should resume with your knitting. In fact, you're about to do so when footsteps echo down the stairs. They don't click when they connect with the ground, so it's thankfully not your mother.

"Good morning," you say, not bothering to lift your head from your work.

A small gasp is exhaled in response, followed by, "Fucking shit... Uh... Hi."

You recognise that voice. It had briefly slipped your mind that he now resides with you. "Oh, I did not expect you to be awake this early, Dave."

Said sibling heads over to the couch to sit beside you. Well, he rather falls back beside you in a disruptive thump that catapults some of the cushions overboard. Only now do you lift your head to inspect your brother's appearance, just to conclude that he is actually here.

His hair is almost as ruffled as yours, curling up at the tips like wispy, blond vines wrapped around a trellis. With his red pyjama top revealing more of his scrawny figure, you take in even more of the dotted expanse that is his tawny beige skin. Scars spiral along his exposed arms, and a collection stretch across his hands and knuckles. You can even see a few raised white on his bare feet, just hidden by his red pyjama bottoms. This further deepens your curiosity as to what all these scars are the result of. His shades, much to your inherent frustration, are perched atop his round nose as they always seem to be. Dave yawns, scratching his head and bunching up fluorescent curls and lies back down.

After gathering his bearings, he finally responds, "Actually, it's 11:45am. Don't know how you call that early, Lalonde."

You click your tongue, "Ah. So that's how long I was reposing for." You think back and suddenly recall how the house has no physical presence of a clock in any room, and neither of you have your devices with you, so you ask, "How do you know that?"

"Um... Just do. Always have been able to tell without lookin' at nothin'. Even if we're in a dark-ass room or on the fuckin' moon, you bet your ass I'll know if it's tea time or not. Call Professor Xavier and ship me to his school for gifted youngsters, for I have constant omnipresent knowledge of the position of fucking clock hands. Definitely something the government should be worried about and sink millions of dollars into. Guaranteed profit from local, chill as the Poles psychic kid."

You snicker and nod. What a privilege to witness one of Dave Strider's famous tangents in the flesh. He doesn't seem to be acknowledging your colossal encroachment of his privacy from the previous night. This may allow you to sedate the ridges in the relationship, if he's willing to.

Clearing your throat, you ask, "Indeed. I also sincerely hope that your first night in our humble home was accommodating for your imperturbable charisma and the requirements for maintenance that come with it."

He shrugs, "It was pretty alright. Cool breeze, nice tall silhouettes 'a trees and a river that never stops partying for no one. Raged all night. Pretty sweet for a body of water."

"It does take a while to get used to. It's why John and Jade generally prefer me sojourning at either of their houses as opposed to temporarily residing here and enduring the unremitting rapids."

"Don't blame 'em. Better than Beethoven's 11th Symphony of Car Horns Featuring Grouchy-As-Fuck Neighbours. The perfect mix for only the shittiest of insomnia for the developing upper story of the average adolescent. Not to mention hot as balls, winter be damned."

"So our home is better than your prior, sweaty-as-Satan's-asshole apartment?"

"It wasn't that bad, jeez."

"Your words, not mine," you retort, smirking.

Dave scoffs a little, "Oh yeah, I did come up with that one. Heh. Well, I guess it is. It's big. And a lot cooler. But it's only been like, a day, dude. Chill the fuck out. I'm not going to be settling like the goddamn Spanish on this new world an' shit. Takes time."

"I know. I apologise for being supercilious."

"S'alrignt."

The air's quiet after that. This is immeasurably awkward to endure. It's blatantly obvious that talking in the same room is infinitely more consequential than conversing over a technological platform. As mildly inconvenient as Pesterchum was sometimes, as specially when it rained, it did allow leeway for the preparation of discussion and response. However, it feels organic talking your companion in person. The hiccups can surely be ironed out, right?

"So..."

"So...?"

You bite the inside of your cheek and fiddle with the untouched wool in your lap, "How is Dirk–"

"I don't know." A quick answer.

"Ah. Has he not talked to you since yesterday?" you inquire,

Dave sighs, shifting on the couch to sit on his hands, face devoid of noticeable emotion, "We talked a little when we got here. Your mom... Mom made it hella stiff to talk about shit. Other than that, he's been in his room, probably decking it out in his sick-ass frill. He gets hung up on details like that. Nothin' but top-tier coolness."

You rest your head in your hands, secretly enraptured, "I see. A perfectionist?"

"For the things he does, yeah. I mean, he's not exactly organised in the slightest and his room looks like the nearest hurricane had a heyday in it. I'm talking clothes and wires all over the fuckin' place. Screws and bolts too like, which hurt like an absolute bitch when you step on 'em."

Tapping your fingers on your chin, you take the information in, "Is he an amateur mechanic?"

"The dude sure loves robots. He's good at it too. I think he made like, a robo-bunny butler for one of Roxy' friends."

"Jane?" you interject.

"Um... Yeah her."

You nod, the insufferable silence burying the conversation there. You did not foresee enacting civility with Dave Strider being so goddamn difficult. The investment writhes up and down like a stray spiderling trapped in a blustery current, clinging onto its silky gossamer for dear life. You wish this could be simpler, but apparently, distance can heighten the leaps in a friendship.

Sucking in a breath, you ask, "Would you be interested in joining me on a tour of the house at a later date? I strongly suggest you become habituated here for the fastest integration possible."

Dave stares at the corner of the coffee table in thought, "Gonna happen anyway, but sure. Why the hell not?."

"Excellent." Your fingers touch in an ominous gesture, gratifying glee blossoming in your stomach at the prospect of brief progress in your affinity with your brother.

"Stop doing that. You look like you're going to straight-up murder me behind the house and dump me in the river."

"What if I am?"

"Cool it, Kubrick. I thought you liked me."

"There is no denying that fact. And to avert blatant suspicion, I will say that I will not be murdering you after sunset and strategically disposing your body in the insatiable whitewater of Rainbow Falls," you cock your eyebrows in effect, "...yet."

For a second, you see a sliver of a grin at the corner of Dave's lips before it quickly reverts to a neutral demeanour, "Oh I have been spared. Thank you, eldritch goth goddess."

You snicker, "Your fate is at my mercy, dear brother. And as your higher power, I demand you to ingest something." You pause, "And to take back that goth comment, if you please."

"Okay, I officially retract my statement of you being goth. But you gotta remember that I used it in a heavenly context, so technically it was a customary compliment. I deserve a fuckin' thanks for that." he says to defend himself, already standing and hopping over the couch and into the kitchen.

"Not today, sweetest brother of mine."

"Ew no that sounds gross."

"Does it, dare I utter this scandalous phrase, annoy you?" Oh boy you're onto something.

Dave stands strong, "Not a fuckin' chance. You've gotta try harder than that, emo queen."

"Crow mother."

"Tentacle fetishist."

"Relic from the nineties."

"Harry Potter infringer."

"Vanilla Ice-imitation." This is really fun.

It appears you have bested Dave, for he is now desperately trying to conceal his laughter through his wrist, "Oh my god you went there. Holy shit dude that's hilarious."

Your grin spreads wide. Mission success. "I am victorious!"

"For this round, you mean."

"Of course. This battle is far from over. Now if you'll excuse me, I must unfortunately recline from this charming banter to confirm our sister's health."

Dave raises an eyebrow, trying not to look worried, "What's up with her? She sick?"

"She will be when she wakes up... In the meantime, I'll take upon the frivolous task of conjuring more vexatious aliases for you." you pause on the stairs mid-walk, glancing back to see Dave walking to the kitchen and sitting on the countertop.

He smirks, "I'll be so ready for the next round of annoying the fuck out of you?"

"Oh really? Well, I'll see you for Round 2 as the undefeated victor, insufferable prick," you say, gifting him a competitive stare.

Dave scoffs just as you continue your ascent upstairs, "In your dreams, Lalonde."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not meant to be this long or this drawn out. I apologise for the drag but character development is *pain*. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you're enjoying this! Remember to post feedback and thank you for reading!


	3. Reaching Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your mission today is to interact with all of your siblings. These will most likely result in varying degrees of success, and no doubt the most challenging will be your elusive older brother that you're gearing up to confront. This should be interesting.

As it turns out, trying to pull your heavily intoxicated sister out of a dehydrated stupor is more difficult than anticipated. No amount of gentle prodding (from non-phallic objects, thank you very much), whisper-shouting or spontaneous disruptive noises can so hope to awaken the comatose teenager. You contemplate pouring water on her from the numerous glasses you've brought, but in retrospect, such an action is considered quite cruel. Practical, but cruel. And objectively hilarious.

Moving on.

Past experiences dictate that you should leave Roxy to wake up on her own, despite your inherent guilt at the proposition. Come the next day, you're apprehensive in believing that the pink-tipped teenager will be heedful enough to acknowledge your presence. Even so, you hope that more of the alcohol has been washed out of her system to wake her up, albeit with a hellish headache. A white bottle of headache pills is clutched in one hand while the other holds another glass of water destined to coalesce with the others adjacent to the bedpost, a tiny infrastructure of transparent towers filled with dusty liquid. Thinking about the unpleasant taste sends a preternatural prickle down your spine.

With your breath held in suspense, you knock on Roxy's door as quietly as you possibly can and await a response, and almost leap off the ground and drop the bottle and refill of water when a soft groan answers, proceeded by a tired voice, "Hello...?"

Relief washes over you, and your fear that Roxy might have finally succumbed to alcohol poisoning is graciously put to rest. You say, "Hello, Roxy. It's Rose. May I request an audience with you?"

There's a moment of silence, followed by the faint shuffling of fabric and pillows from the other side of the door. You hear your sister's exasperated yawn loud and clear before she replies with a meek, "Yeah..."

Gently pushing the door open in a feeble endeavour to prevent the monstrous creek that sounds from its hinges, you head to the window to open the curtains a tad, all without stumbling over anything. A beam of warm mid-morning sun pierces the comforting darkness, an act your sister does not take kindly to– ducking under the covers to evade the change in lighting. Sure enough, the increased visibility unveils a collection of still-filled glasses sitting on the carpet, dust floating on the undisturbed surfaces in the glint of the sun.

Lying face up, hair mussed beyond comprehension and frosting the sides of her head in uneven blond and pink with an added set of bags under her eyes is Roxy. The duvet's being held close to her chin, hiding the lithe body beneath. With the struggle of keeping her eyes opened through squinted lids, pink pupils are trained to one paint bubble on the ceiling, occasionally drifting off and followed by a pained wince.

"I take it you're not recovering as hoped?" you say, concerned as you walk over to the bedside.

Roxy glances upwards to meet your gaze, daintily moving her head from side to side, "Nuh-uh..."

"Dizzy?"

"Mhm... Can't turn m'head too much..."

You hold out the white bottle to Roxy, shaking it to hint at its invaluable contents, "I brought headache pills."

Your sister smiles, slowly sitting herself up and clutching her head at any accidental sudden movement. She then gingerly takes the bottle in trembling hands, as well as the glass you hold out. "Thanks Rose. You're a fuckin' lifesaver..."

"It's nothing," you say, shrugging.

Roxy swallows two pills before downing the water in one gulp. She sinks back down in the comfort of her covers to let the medicine kick in, taking sips of water in controlled intervals. Her hushed breathing acts as a makeshift metronome for the accompaniment of the river under the floor, a battle to steady it in tandem with her pulsing head. While bright pink eyes are slightly dulled from exhaustion, she still manages to conjure up a smile, "Thanks a bunch, though."

"The pleasure is mine. Have you eaten?"

The teen bites her lip, "Had a little somethin' last night, or this mornin'. Think it was a couple fruits before  
I felt like barfing. Then I showered and went back to bed," she details, "Dizziness was a bitch though. Probably stepped on Mutie's tail once or twice."

"He'll forgive you, I assure you."

"Bluh... Got in my way anyway. Damn him from blending in with the floor... Like a... a midnight kitty ninja tryin' to trip me up on the stairs..."

"Mother would somehow land him with any charges should they befall on you and force him to sign insurance leases with a forged signature complete with a paw print for authenticity in your honour. Your integrity and safety would be avenged from his unintentionally malicious feline clutches," you quip, sitting on the edge of her unmade mattress and allowing your grin to cultivate.

A snort rouses from her, smile modest and endearing, "Yup, classy Mom." After another swig of water, she asks, "So, how long was I out?"

"A day," you answer, matter-of-factly.

"Goddamn..."

"Yes. I came in to see how you were yesterday, but you were completely incapacitated."

"I most definitely was. And it sucks. Apex shittiness, right here. But you have made me feel significantly less shitty. Like, my shittiness decreased by a solid twenty-two percent. So thanks another bunch, Rosie."

"I'm truly flattered, dearest sister," you say whilst tucking a few stray, flaxen strands behind your ear. A persistent faction of you wishes to interrogate Roxy's motivations in landing up in this familiar dance with liquor, but the more sensible faction tells you it's better to ignore it for the sake of sensitivity and respect of timing. Roxy obviously doesn't need a lecture at this time.

You contemplate leaving to allow a period of concord for Roxy's recovery, but the thought is tucked away when from the sanctum of her blankets, she asks, "So... what d'ya do yesterday while I was hella conked out?"

You hum, resting your fingers to your chin. Upon recollection, the events that formerly transpired are not in the slightest bit worth recounting. Apart from your exchange with Dave. Other than that, you were knitting, eating, scheming, the like.

"Nothing worth recounting."

"C'mon~ Not a little peak into your life when I miss a day of mine? Not even a teeny bit?"

"If you're expecting some sort of momentous occasion in my routine yesterday to live vicariously through my humble retelling, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Please~? I don' care if it's borin' or nothin'."

"Well..." clicking your tongue in acquiescence, you say, "I suppose I did talk to Dave."

"Oh? And? Different irl or a mirror image from Pesterchum? The mystery's solved here."

You chuckle, "Well, he's certainly a character."

"Aren't we all? Now stop stallin' my poor head and give me the details."

Fondness settles in your stomach, and you answer, "Dave's interesting. Eerily similar to our virtual interplay in demeanour, but slightly more emotive to differentiate the two if they were to be sat beside each other for a glorified spot the difference experiment. A wisecracker, withdrawn yet entertaining. He's quite nice, all in all."

Your sister frowns, "That's cool and all but... 'nice'? When have you ever used a word as fuckin' bland as 'nice' to describe anything?"

"It was the best adjective I could think of."

"It's always the best adjective to think of."

"Shut up."

"Nah."

"Bluh."

"Bleh."

You leave that thread there and sit, basking in the warmth on your back. Roxy's eyes are starting to droop, pupils dilating in the battle for awareness. It won't be long until you have to take your leave.

However, one task juts its ugly head. The ratio of familial interaction you've had over the past two days combined (the day of integration not withstanding) has been a two to three ratio. It's not entirely your fault for the lack of assertiveness on your part, as it has been met largely and most likely unintentionally reciprocated. So, your goal today is to confront your eldest brother, and you're not going without ammunition.

"Pardon the abrupt question, but would it be too much to acquire some words of wisdom and how to confront an estranged elder brother?" you say, clearing your throat.

"Why? Haven't you talked to Dirk yet?"

"That's the precise motivation for bringing up this inquiry with you, Roxy."

"Gotcha. Well... He's kinda like you but flipped around a tad an' three years older, in that weird way."

"What?" you ask, oddly flabbergasted by such a statement. You doubt that anyone can match up to you in terms of wit. Okay a few people most probably can, but that's besides the point.

"Okay, hear me out. I see you bein' all confused an' all and I'm here to tell you that it's totally founded. See, he's like you because he's really, really witty and snarky. Also smart as heck."

"I don't believe myself to be snarky."

"Shhhhh. Let me finish, child. As I was sayin', he's pretty quick. Classy, even. But he's the biggest dork underneath like, god it's insufferably adorable when he gets excited. But here's the trick: he won't show it Since that shit ain't cool."

You should have figured, "The apple does not fall far."

"So, you gotta be on your fuckin' game. Crack that Strider walnut and reap the dorkiness inside. Seriously though, he's super nice when ya hit the right cords. That cynicism can bite, yo."

You nod, gathering all the glasses and holding them to your chest. Walking down the stairs with these will be a damn trial. "Your invaluable knowledge shall not be squandered. Many thanks."

Roxy grins from her blankets, finally beginning to fall asleep, "No prob, Rosie..."

"Rest well."

"Will do..." is the last thing you hear before you close the door and head back to the kitchen.

~*~

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering  timeausTestified [TT] at 12:14 

TT: Greetings, Striderian sibling.  
TT: 'Sup, presumed Lalonde.  
TT: Oh good.  
TT: You knew it was me.  
TT: Rose, right?  
TT: You are correct, Dirk.  
TT: Now, I am very much aware of how out of the blue my appearance must be to you.  
TT: Yes, I am.  
TT: Also wondering how you got my handle.  
TT: Roxy.  
TT: She gave it to me in case I ever wanted to talk to you.  
TT: Okay.  
TT: Thought I had a stalker on my hands.  
TT: Which, if that were the case, would be thoroughly dispatched by drop-kick and being hung upside down from the nearest tree.  
TT: I must admit, that is be a fantastic approach to diverging suspicion and humiliating them in the process.  
TT: Thank you.  
TT: But I must sadly deter any threats and or future attempts to disable me by punching my lights out and leaving me to dangle from the branches of one of the many pine in close proximity.  
TT: For I've been to summer camp.  
TT: Your knots would be no match for my unbridled skill in prison escape.  
TT: Fuck.  
TT: Wait.  
TT: How would you know about freeing yourself from a snare trap?  
TT: No one braved to set foot on the hunter-poisoned soil of the forest on Camp Moonshine once I was held captive by sub-par ingenuity and a particularly resin-soaked tree.  
TT: Ladders were ineffective, counsellors were fraught with fear and the remaining campers watched in transfixed bemusement at how I was to alleviate myself from this situation.  
TT: So, with steel-tempered determination and untrimmed fingernails, I cut the wire free and gracelessly plummeted to the underbrush, earning a broken leg and a chipped incisor.  
TT: Holy fuck, dude.  
TT: And I thought my upbringing was badass.  
TT: God, anything I'll say now will sound mundane by comparison.  
TT: I'm sure it won't.  
TT: So...  
TT: Right, right. Sorry.  
TT: No worries.  
TT: As I was saying, despite the fact that we have not actually communicated and have only been vaguely aware of each other's existence through our respective siblings and or then considered companions since, I would like to make an assertive effort for a half-baked brother-sister bond, which I hope you'll be willing to comply.  
TT: Only half-baked?  
TT: Just testing the waters.  
TT: This will either go swimmingly, or not.  
TT: I'm trying to be less ambitious with my projected goals.  
TT: Fair enough.  
TT: Congrats on being the first of the opposite ends of the tree to break the ice.  
TT: I was expecting this prolonged introduction to become a never-ending cycle of avoidance.  
TT: Just pussyfooting around each other, not attempting to communicate, further resulting in a culmination of awkwardness and increasing the width of the figurative age gap until we have no fucking clue on how to talk to each other.  
TT: Turns out there's hope yet.  
TT: Indeed, Mr. Strider.  
TT: This was bound to happen sooner or later.  
TT: Is that what you're going with?  
TT: Also, I thought that's what you berate Dave with?  
TT: Firstly, I have to adhere to some form of calumnious sobriquet and resorting to that of petty familial moniker would be, in your words, "too soon".  
TT: Secondly, Dave is ascribed as simply Strider, and you being the older, I have designated you the formality of mister and or sir.  
TT: Self-explanatory?  
TT: Crystal clear.  
TT: Good.  
TT: So why don't we cut off anymore potential pussyfooting and start a conversation.  
TT: A lighting round, as you would call it.  
TT: Alright.  
TT: Who starts?  
TT: I'll allow you the honours.  
TT: Sweet.  
TT: So, Rose Lalonde, to what do you indulge in?  
TT: Obscure literature of an unequivocal genre, psychoanalysis and knitting.  
TT: As well as habitual interest in occultist practices.  
TT: You and Roxy could not be further apart.  
TT: I'll take that to cement my identity within this family.  
TT: So thank you.  
TT: It wasn't an insult.   
TT: Sorry.  
TT: It was more of an observation.  
TT: Care to elaborate?  
TT: Not really.  
TT: So, I guess I should tell you what I like, right?  
TT: If what the countless sleepovers portrayed in films and various introductions of children are to be believed, then yes.  
TT: Shit.  
TT: Okay.  
TT: I draw sometimes.  
TT: And I build things, as a hobby. Robotic appliances, specifically.  
TT: So I've heard.  
TT: The mastermind behind the infamous Little Sebastian.  
TT: Alternatively, Lil' Seb.  
TT: Oh my god.  
TT: Is that a thing that happened?  
TT: John wouldn't stop complaining for days.  
TT: Oh yeah, Dave's friend.  
TT: And by extension, your friend?  
TT: Precisely.  
TT: It made for some raucously entertaining results.  
TT: For example, do you know that Jane used her this fabled robotic companion to stalk her poor cousin with a water pistol for the entire day?  
TT: Holy shit.  
TT: Dave would've told me something like that.  
TT: That sounds sick.  
TT: It was.  
TT: We were all blessed to see the descent of our friend's patience through a photographic timeline.  
TT: Poor dude.  
TT: Did he have it coming?  
TT: For filling her shoes with her father's shaving cream the previous month, I would say yes.  
TT: Jane did tell me about that.  
TT: Said cleaning them out was a bitch.  
TT: Top to bottom, covered in dad foam.  
TT: The sheer scent of dadness was so overwhelming that she passed the fuck out at some point.  
TT: If sources are to be believed.  
TT: Oh dear.  
TT: And I thought cheap fragrances and unadulterated alcohol were enough to make flies drop.  
TT: Not anymore.  
TT: The scent of middle-aged father figures can incapacitate an entire audience of unsuspecting sniffers.  
TT: Move over, canned dog food and burnt barbecue; the undisputed king of diabolical domestic odours is here to wreck your shit.  
TT: Adulterated Dadness, now it's personal.  
TT: ...  
TT: Okay that.  
TT: That fell on its ass pretty quickly, didn't it?  
TT: Just a tad.  
TT: Fuck, sorry.  
TT: Don't be.  
TT: It's delightful to know of another source of Striderian shit-spewing in my very vicinity, complete with ineffably obtuse analogies that the world shall never evolve the apperception to comprehend.  
TT: Happy to be here.  
TT: Rearing the topic back.  
TT: You've known Dave for a while, right?  
TT: Since the ripe age of eight.  
TT: Wow.   
TT: How'd you meet?  
TT: Through my friend Jade.  
TT: She befriended him through various forums that no longer exist on this infinite archive known as the Internet.  
TT: He then met John second, and then me.  
TT: While things were initially...  
TT: I'll say discommodious between us, we eventually grew on another in the manner that a persistent cluster of creeper overtakes a monument.  
TT: Many of an amused debate ranging from the aspects of our respective personalities to the relevance of sporks has been had since.  
TT: How fuckin' cute.  
TT: Yes, oblivious sibling banter of the past sure is nostalgic.  
TT: Speaking of:  
TT: Roxy has been disinclined to tell me about you for quite a while.  
TT: Do you think there's a reason for that?  
TT: She relays events from encounters with her other friends without exception and with confidence, so I'd think it odd that her closest compatriot is shrouded in mystery.  
TT: Really?  
TT: Huh.  
TT: It might be a matter of favouritism, or that my background isn't exactly something to applaud like a roadside attraction featuring hamsters juggling their own shit.  
TT: Guess I'm just a special snowflake.  
TT: Maybe.  
TT: Are we going to continue gossiping about our own flesh and blood or...?  
TT: Under any other circumstance, I'd be more than ebullient to.  
TT: But I'm quite the preoccupied woman, as of late.  
TT: Woods to wander, tomes to reread, a younger brother to bedevil.  
TT: Well damn, don't let me hold up your agenda, sis.  
TT: That bedevilling ain't gonna do itself.  
TT: Why thank you.  
TT: And is that meant to be ironic?  
TT: It can be viewed as that.  
TT: Why am I not surprised.  
TT: Anyway, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Strider.  
TT: I hope to confabulate with you another time.  
TT: Yeah, this was, astonishingly, not a colossal shit fest of unbearable ineptitude.  
TT: Have fun with whatever you're doing.  
TT: Don't eat weird berries, stay away from lopsided bookshelves, don't be too much of a dick to Dave.  
TT: Etcetera.  
TT: Brotherly wisdom.  
TT: I'll take that to heart.  
TT: Goodbye.  
TT: See ya.  


timeausTestified [TT] ceased pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT] at 13:02

~*~

The weather dulls as the afternoon settles, the height of noon descending to a lukewarm daze. The change in temperature seeps through the walls, prompting you to slip on a rather charming black sweater with a violet moon design to acclimate. It helps the gooseflesh peppering your skin die down, soft wool soothing the cold away. 

With two things crossed off your internal to-do list, you might as well find Dave, wherever he is. Maybe take him up on that excursion of the house, even if the house itself isn't that complex in layout. In the spur of the moment, you extended such an offer out of politeness. Now, you're wondering what fathomed the thought that the house has more than ten rooms and half of them take residential priority. Well, the forest is a good place to start...

By the time your puddle of introspection dries, you catch yourself mid-step down the stairs. A yellow glow reflects on the white surfaces of the floor, as well as a vaguely red form sitting parallel.

Found him.

"Are you planning on taking initiative to ingest something, or do you plan on sitting there until the fridge engulfs you whole?" you say, raising your eyebrow as your feet meet the bottom of the stairs.

Dave turns to you, unapologetically slouched in the yellow light of the fridge, wafts of cold mist evaporating from the iced door. A gut feeling tells you he's been here a good while.

"Dunno man. Living in a fridge sounds like a steal. Sure, might be a little below zero degrees, but that would be made up for by being surrounded by munchies preserved to perfection twenty-four-seven. Just not this fridge, since I've tried appearifying something other than fuckin' ketchup and a pack of mac 'n cheese with my mind for twenty minutes now and nothing has materialised to plug my thirst for the ambrosia that is apple juice and anything comprising more than thirty percent grease."

Leaning to your right to corroborate your brother's claims and no-doubt denying the existence of a lone bottle of ketchup sequestered in the corner and a family-size portion of microwavable macaroni and cheese (there's also a jar of pickles, half a carton of milk, pink lemonade that Roxy likes to drink sometimes, some eggs, a hot pocket, a half-burnt chicken and an assortment of vegetables, but that's not the point), you can agree that this appliance has seen more prosperous days. Perhaps it's time to head to town and restock...

"You've been eating something, at least?" you ask, trying to hide your incredulous assumptions that Dave may not have eaten enough to retain motor functions.

"A cup of dry Cheerios."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Nope. Can't resist the pull of them honey nut rings of goodness, bro."

Swallowing the sisterly concern that arises from your cold, insipid heart and resisting the urge to give this young man a piece of anything remotely edible immediately (you sadly cannot, since you can't cook for absolute shit), you bite the inside of your cheek and furrow your brow.

You ask what time it is, and he says, without hesitation, "Ten past one."

He really does have a weird talent. "I think it's time to eat something other than artificial sugar rings."

"Cheerios are a healthy breakfast for the whole goddamn family. Got twelve vitamins and minerals and a whole lotta sweetness. Could eat 'em every day and be a picture of health. Folks'll ask, 'Holy fuck dude, you're shredded! What's your secret?' and I'll say, 'Eat nothin' but Cheerios kids. That shit sets you up for life.'"

"A professional would be none to pleased with your dietary dedications should you pursue that lifestyle."

"Yeah, but you know what I'll tell them to eat if they're not satisfied?"

"Dave."

"Too predictable?"

"Embarrassingly trite." The cupboard swings open to reveal a dwindling treasure trove of snacks and carbohydrates. Some pasta in the back, rice, sauces, instant noodles, old chips, some baking supplies for whenever Jane sojourns, cereal, potatoes... Wow this is sad. It does nothing to help the tremor in your stomach. "We can reheat the chicken and share it?"

Dave seems to be eyeing the piece of poultry behind his shades, his fingers drumming on the enamel floor, "Sitting together with a hunk of burnt meat in the afternoon sun? How fuckin' romantic."

You scoff playfully, taking the dish out and setting it on the counter. With a few vegetables, this could work. You don't remember why a perfectly... less than adequate piece of poultry such as this would be left to fester in the unforgiving chills of the fridge. It can't be that bad, can it? 

With a trusty knife in hand, you take some carrots, peas, beans and tomatoes, and dice them as evenly as you can before the pieces tumble next to the chicken. Slipping the plate into the microwave, you wait patiently for the telling ping and extract the meal. 

Dave stands and saunters to the nearest stool, slouching over the counter with his head in his palm. It's as if he's actively trying to provoke you with passiveness, and even though you refuse to break your facade of imperturbable preeminence and sophistication, it's pissing you off. A lot more than it probably should.

You sit with the steaming meal in between the two of you. Charred chicken flesh flakes off and scatters across the white expanse of the plate, preventing you from being truly esurient. At least the vegetables look appetising. You each take a tentative forkful, and after much deliberation, Dave says, "This is fucking awful." You agree and settle for the vegetables instead. He still thanks you for the valiant effort, ironic thumbs up and all. "Any other plans to keep us from starving to death?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. Now eat your vegetables."

"I don't want to eat my veggies."

"Young man, do you want to become big and strong like those unrealistically proportioned men on TV? Then eat your goddamn veggies."

"Fuck no. They're evil. Look at these malicious motherfuckers. Them peas be staring at me from their green cloak of deception. They're like little green cameras for the veggie rebellion."

"You know only potatoes have eyes, right?"

"Oh fuck they do? Jesus shit we've been compromised by the earth apples. Hide the children, Rose, the damn potatoes have been onto us for longer than we thought."

You roll your eyes, swallowing another portion of carrots and beans, "Yes, the potatoes that are currently rotting at the bottom of the cupboard. What a threat to our livelihoods."

"Did you not see that one episode of The Powerpuff Girls, Rose? An invasion down to a fuckin' T. Death by nutrients, bro."

"Yes, by sentient, extraterrestrial broccoli, which we are not ingesting at present, which invalidates your hatred of said intended set of vegetables."

Dave's about to say something to defend himself, but instead takes a hasty cluster of the vegetables he so despises and eats them without complaint. Haha, you won that round. Thanks to that meaningless yet entertaining squabble, the side of the dish is picked clean, and the both of you have some fuel to work off of until dinner.

While taking the plate to scrape its gruesome remains to the trashcan, you ask, "Are you still up for that excursion of the premises that I offered yesterday? I realise that the house itself isn't that grand, but I have an appealing alternative that I believe you'll enjoy."

"Now it just sounds like you wanna murder me. You could've been nicer about it too. Like, 'Hey bro, I have some really cool shit outback that I'm positive that even you're holy eyes can deem cool. You've gotta come check it.'

"The day I adopt your vocabulary is the day I hurl myself into the depths of this damn waterfall," you remark, running water over the plate and leaving it in the sink to wash for later. "And I obviously wouldn't foreshadow your murder like that. I'd do it with flair."

"Oh so like..." he inhales, and in a high-pitched accent that could offend the fucking queen, imitates, "My brother dearest, there is an object of interest right outside our humble quarters that you simply must inspect! Do follow me while I slip on these splendid leather gloves that shall withhold my fingerprints should anything arise!"

A smug aura permeates from the illusive slip of his smile. You respond with one in kind, only ten times more smug because there's not a snowball's chance in hell that anyone can outdo your culmination of passive aggression from your years alive in this household. "You've just insulted not only me, but anyone of even remotely British origin. How do you feel?"

"Pretty swell, not gonna lie." Dave deflates across the counter, sleeves climbing up his field of marred skin and freckles, "And it ain't like I've seen the rest of this place already. I was lied to. This ain't know house of wonders."

"No refunds," you say as you fish your keys from your pocket and head to the door.

"Damn." Dave slips off the stool with ease and trots nonchalantly to you, a spire of red and lanky limps compared to your height. You're not secretly jealous. "So, what're we goin' out for?"

"Just an aimless stroll into the jaws of wildlife."

"Aimless?"

"Do you prefer your forest strolls with purpose? If so, you may wish to reconsider this outing, city boy."

A twitch in his lips, a bud of pride, "Well I guess your purposeless little stroll will be boring as a school play 'bout Mother Nature without me. Either we order a shit ton of purpose to go or you're walking alone. Pick your poison."

You sigh to feign interest, your hand daintily propping up your chin as an eyebrow rises, "To accommodate, I'll offer some form of an objective to this ramble..."

"And?"

"It's a surprise."

"Fuck you."

The door's unlocked and the fresh spray cleanses your lungs better than air, and you step out into the driveway, the woods a looming wall of green pine needles, cones and endless trunks shrouding the descending sun. "Why can one no longer be satisfied to be thrust into the ever loving and unknown hands of the wild as a spiritual experience?"

Amber reflects off his signature aviators as Dave follows anyway, not a hint of empathy. "I'm out with you, so isn't that all that matters right now?"

The playful grin of yours falters, but doesn't disappear even as you lock the door and head to the wall of trees, "Fair enough. Off we go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a long two months, hasn't it.
> 
> Sorry about that gap. Work and stress got in the way of anything remotely resembling free time. But here it is! Over 5000 words! All the comments and kudos' have been a light in the tunnel. Thank you to everyone who supports this little passion project! 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it after the long wait!


	4. A Hint of Disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the woods and to the fall, a noise disrupts the tranquil wall.

The weak warmth of the afternoon is barely clinging to the air, wisps of a cold breeze foretelling the weather for tonight. Sunlight fights through the trees, branches obstructing rays and forming a shadowy puppet show orchestrated by the wind. All the sparrows and robins have flown off to their nests, tweeting happily and preparing for rest. Even the waterfall seems muted through the peace of the twilight, spray thick and refreshing as you step across the driveway and into the brush, Dave following you close behind.

You're positive he's not used to this. Birds and furious whitewater instead of car horns and less than considerate neighbours, restorative mist through the lungs instead of smog and heat. The manner in which he takes everything around him as he trots nonchalantly down the hill and into the sea of trees is simultaneously baffling and endearing. Dave finds little burrows by the trail, blanketed in leaves with minuscule movements particularly fascinating. He jumps at the flash of a cottontail running over the path and diving into its home. You laugh. He hides his cheeks darkening because Striders don't get scared of fuckin' bunny rabbits.

The jaunt is done in contented quiet, not a word spoken as the flora inundates the two of you in opalescent familiarity. You've been down this trail so often that it's become a sort of circumscribed sanctum for you when the house gets too small for your liking. Your room can't simply be your only designated bunker from the world all around you. You're lucky you're wearing your hiking boots today. Dave's earned some respect from you for making it this far with his sneakers.

Dave breaks the glass wall of silence, "So... We've got school in a week, huh?"

Oh god you completely forgot. Three months of blissful ignorance, decimated with a mere sentence. Dread for the suspense of your blasted and broken establishment of education is reintroduced to the forefront of your memory. Well, denial only gets one further to nowhere, so no matter the circumstance, it should be embraced.

Hiding your evident displeasure, you glance backwards to your brother and say, "It appears so. Has our mother detailed you on your education plan for the next five years?"

"Yup. Got me into almost every class you breathe in. And photography and junior archeology classes."

"I thought you'd channel your energy into something more creatively inclined, such as music or painting your ironic comics."

"Nah man. Those are more like hobbies, despite being rad as fuck. If I set a foot into any of them music classes, I'd blow the brains out of everyone within a mile radius thanks to my seriously ill beats. Brain goop drippin' everywhere yo. A good way to go. People'd have wet dreams of having their cerebrums be detonated by my legendary tunes. It'd be a motherfuckin' fable across the goddamn school."

You hum in agreement while turning left at a fallen tree, bridging the road in a barricade. That may be a potential obstacle for your mother going to work, but why should you care? You're sure she has a dusted disintegration ray in her possession for an occasion such as that. The knowledge of wether she's home or not is also an ever-present mystery concluded whenever you eventually see her unconscious body draped over furniture as if she were a nothing more than a rag doll. That fills your mouth with a sour taste.

A right by a mossy stump leads you and Dave directly to a fenced-off cliff top curtained by trees and bushes. A small, stone bench veiled in leaves and vines blends in with the fallen foliage but not enough that your sharp vision and memory can gloss over. A view of the unobstructed falls catches the dimming light in iridescent spectacle, a thin veil of spray and scent of cold water filtering through your nose. Your house is at the top, casting a shadow in the setting sun every time you happen to glance to the upper left. From here, the view reveals the rest of the Adirondack park in glimmering splendour, clouds with purple brushed underneath cotton pinned to the blushing empyrean scape.

Dave whistles in awe at the woodland canopies stretched out before you. You can tell that he's trying to sound less impressed than he actually is. It's not like a Texan skyline shouldn't be impressive, but you imagine that through the thick haze of heat that the wonder for industrial settings would be grated for him.

"Jesus... And you see this every day?"

Smirking as you sit on the wildlife-encased bench, you answer, "Every day. Such a displeasure on the eyes," you pat the space next to you, beckoning, "Come now. You must be tired, and it'll only get harder once we have to go back up."

He groans, "I swear to all the worms we killed when walking down here, you are actually trying to kill me."

"That could be my reasoning, yes. However, it is your downfall that you expected any less when embarking on this trip with me, even after I warned you and called you a permanent urban inhabitant."

Dave sits on the bench beside you, almost collapsing boneless; he doesn't due to maintain his unwavering cool guy image, but the beads of sweat swept over by blond locks don't go unnoticed by you. He says, gasping, "Okay. Okay. My bad, then. A threat to my sick capabilities of literally walking down Bambi Lane? Shit, man. Too goddamn far. I needed to show you who the fuck was boss in the walkin' biz."

"And that you did, congratulations for walking for an extended period of time."

"Way to undermine my achievements, asshole. Who gave you permission to do that?"

"It's in my job description as your sister to do so."

"Well, fuck."

The topic ends there, and you both let the conversation simmer in the remaining sunlight in silence. The white fog of water cascading down the cliff is never not breathtaking to extol. The sounds echoing from the bottom of the precipice and the unrelenting stretch of landscape allow a disconnect from the harsher points of reality and lets you appreciate the now, despite how sickeningly cliché that sounds in your head. It's your space, next to your room and the observatory. You suppose that it should be deeply symbolic and metaphoric that Dave is sharing this space with you at this very moment, and therefore could be contextualised as a sign of mutual appreciation for each other's company and a willingness to extend even your deepest and most personal sanctuary to him, a newfound brother.

But that sounds ridiculous and nauseatingly melodramatic, so you ignore that analogy and return your thoughts to the impending return of school.

Christ... You haven't talked with John or Jade for almost a week, and they have no feasible idea that Dave, their friend long-distanced friend from Texas, is recently no longer long-distanced. Hell, presumed that he hasn't communed with them either, they don't even know that Dave's okay after two weeks of silence from him. God, they'll have your head... You better message them later.

To get your mind off your impending crucifixion by friendleader and co., you ask Dave, "What was it like going to school back in Texas?"

Dave picks a leaf from the bench and starts to tear it's olive green flesh from the stem. While absentmindedly destroying the poor fraction of foliage, he says, "Boring as shit. Woke up everyday to be subjected to eight hours of non-stop jackassery the minute I graced the bus with my holy presence. You wouldn't believe how many dunderheads there were. Left and right, I tell you. It was agony. Only saving grace of the week was a music class at two-thirty on a Friday and looking for roadkill on the way home."

"Gross."

"What? You think I picked up cats with their heads flattened? Fuck no, dude. Only ever found lizards and feathery assholes with their friends getherin' round remains like some playground smackdown on the pavement, watching the ants go at it. Like damn, those ants were fucking vicious. Probably worse than the foot that squashed 'em."

"How grotesquely melancholic," you remark.

"Damn straight. I'm sure that suffering with you guys will make it suck ass less."

You smirk, "Considering we all have to walk down the entire extent of this hill to get to the road right before the bus leaves, taking approximately seven minutes or five if done quickly, and all the way back uphill upon the return trip, I'd say you better get used to being grouchy and walking at seven o' clock."

"Are you fucking serious."

You lift one of your jean-clad legs to showcase your point, "You don't get calves like these for taking a ride to school."

"You are evil."

"Why thank you. I'd advise you to be prepared for the rangers though. They appear to be incapable of retaining basic information and will ask for your ID every time you leave the park. It's so irritating. You'd think they'd treat us like neighbours by this point."

Dave shifts around on the bed of leaves, clearly uncomfortable but not willing to voice his objections to the current seating arrangement, "Yeah, like you and Rox don't exactly have a forgettable face."

"Should I perceive that as an insult?"

"What? Shit no, no. Sorry just... uh..." hands find the hems of sleeves, frivolously fiddling with the thread that binds the red together, "I didn't mean it like that. It's just that everyone should be able recognise a Lalonde. Everyone at my old school knew that Dirk was a Strider before even hearing his fucking name thanks to me layin' a hella memorable impression on 'em. Should be genes, right? Like someone sees you across the street or in the mall or some random-ass location and goes, "Holy shit that's a fucking Lalonde. Bask in her bewitching radiance or something because that is a motherfucking Lalonde." So the fact that these imbeciles keep letting you slip from their broken minds is a crime and should instantly resign."

"You rhymed there."

"Oh my god I did. I need to remember that."

You laugh, honestly and truly, at the dorkiness of your brother. Christ, he's so fucking dorky. Even dorkier than John. John Egbert. What a chilling prospect. Dave seems embarrassed, head turned the other way to avoid your gaze, but you can catch that elusive sliver of a smile hidden by his shoulder.

Still giggling, you say, "Thank you for the compliment. It was really sweet of you."

With his head still turned away from you, he says, "Don't mention it. Seriously."

"I'll keep that in mind," you remark before channeling your attention to watching the sun set in a poetic gesture.

The moment sours when something goes off in the distance. Amongst the roaring rapids and tweeting of birds, a droning siren blares. Nature ceases all sounds at the unnatural command of the echoes, birds heeding the supposed warning and fluttering away and nearby animals scurrying off to their dens like they were never there, almost panic in a frantic escape. Even the mighty clamour of Rainbow Falls seems to deafen in the alarm's wake.

Nothing but the foreboding reverberation of the noise across the treetops fills your ears now. Your stomach twists and knots at this unfamiliar occurrence and at the same time provokes your curiosity like a fire poker resurrecting embers to a flame. Questions start to form from paranoia and excitement, like what the emergency may be. Did the rangers trigger it? Is there a fire? Well, no– there would be some evidence of smoke emanating from the location of the flames which, you observe, are nowhere to be seen. The siren seems to be originating from the other side of the woods, behind your house and down the hill. Perhaps...

Perhaps...

Dave looks to you in a remarkable display of dismay, eyebrows shrouded beneath his fringe knit and his jaw taut, "Rose, please tell me that's a regular part of the Adirondack lifestyle and not a warning of impending fucking disaster."

Ever the wisecracker, but for once, you cannot answer his question with sarcastic confidence and your mouth goes dry, "I... I don't know. Usually I've heard that for the risk of forest fires but there's no signs of smoke in the distance..."

"Shit..."

Fuck, now he's anxious. He shouldn't be anxious. Hell, you aren't anxious, but that doesn't stop newfound adrenaline flooding your nervous system in alarming proportions. "We'll be fine. But I do think we should investigate where it's coming from."

He looks at you like you've finally cracked, "Are you shitting me?"

"Yes. It appears to be coming from the other side of the woods, behind our house. If we can walk up quickly, we could retrieve flashlights and embark to investigate the cause of this disruption before it gets too dark," you say, resolute and already treading through the brush.

You're about to set foot on the earthen path again before Dave barricades you with haste, lanky legs kicking up the undergrowth as he moves. You attempt to shake him off by side-stepping left and right, but he follows you each time. If this were Roxy, you would be easily slip by her and bolt up the hill without difficulty despite her strength, but Dave is at least a head taller than you and has prided himself on honed reflexes and could very well hold his ground in a brawl, which he has also gloated about.

Aggravation builds, and you sigh in exasperation, "Dave, what seems to be the matter now?"

"I want you to put a stop to this flaming train of nope right now and hold the fuck up. Fuck no. We are so not embarking to investigate the cause of this fucking disruption before it gets too dark."

"And why not, Strider? Enlighten me as to why it is apparently such a bad idea to inspect a siren that could very well be a major indicator of incoming danger that could compromise the foundation of our family's safety?"

He answers you in infuriating monotone, "Dude, have you not paid attention to every fucking horror movie in existence? Their sole purpose is to show you what not to do to get killed in the first twenty minutes, specifically tailored to shitty side characters. Do you want to be the shitty side character who dies and acts as a warning beacon to everyone else in the ragtag Mystery Gang to not check out the paranormal entity? Do you?"

"But Dave–"

"Listen, I don't wanna see that you've had your head replaced by an extraterrestrial asshole or getting mauled to bloody shreds thanks to Generic Paranormal Dickhead No. 239. And I'm not letting either of those events pan out if I can help it, no sir. We are aware of this fucking audience and we're gonna fucking bounce. Right now. No looking back."

You're about to interject to placate the over-elaborate metaphors and analogies of your paranoid brother when you think your plan through again and yeah, it is stupidly risky. Sensationalised distress or no, your brother's anxiety is somewhat justified. But... The temptation of the siren is deliciously exciting after doing nothing this entire summer.

While the ominous wails drown out the wildlife to white noise, you argue, "Dave, we could in fact proceed with my proposition if we go together and armed. Lord knows of the endless potential of weapons scattered across the house from our mother's collection of meaningless crap."

"Rose, we're not going fucking monster hunting."

"It's not monster hunting."

"Please, Rose. It's not a good idea even in the half-baked sense," with such ironic sincerity, your brother pleads as apathetically as he can. "Besides, it might just be a drill or something."

That ultimately defeats your resolve, and you stand down. "Fine, I won't go out and potentially risk my neck in an effort to absolve my morbid curiosity," you mutter, looking back at the cliff to see the sky a soft lilac, red tinging the horizon.

"Thank god..."

"But on one condition: we're not going to tell our mother about this? Agreed?"

Dave nods, stepping to the side to let you pass and already trailing behind you on for the trek back, "Gotcha. Nothing to mom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, yeah.
> 
> I was thinking of posting this earlier, but other things came up. I've got a break coming up soon, so that should bode well for increased productivity.
> 
> Thank you all for being patient!


End file.
